


The Art Of Losing

by Aeriel



Category: Les liaisons dangereuses | Dangerous Liaisons - Choderlos de Laclos
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeriel/pseuds/Aeriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desire was born early, as was regret</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Losing

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting old LJ fic- for theme Desire was born early, as was regret. Admittedly influenced by the Christopher Hampton play.

The Marquise de Merteuil is mistress of many things, words included. She takes great pleasure in selecting the exact words to form a phrase describing the specific sentiment she wishes to convey-- a luxury more readily available when one is composing a letter than in actual conversation, more's the pity.   
  
She likes her words perfectly categorized and exact. Unfortunately, there is one little word that defies categorization and definition, continually escaping her grasp and understanding.   
  
Love.   
  
It was an excuse for weakness, a name for madness, a symptom of a greater disease. She hates the excuse and finds the madness profoundly irritating. At the same time, it was a necessary tool for her profession, a lubricant to nature, and an almost comforting ideal. The Marquise considers herself quite knowledgeable on the subject of love, or at least on what people call it. What love actually is continues to escape her.   
  
The Marquise had not considered any of this in any great detail since she was married. Love was a joke she tossed out to frighten and amuse her companions on occasion. The Vicomte, always quick to frighten and emphatically declare his disgust, was a frequent target.   
  
A visit to the countryside, ostensibly to visit Madame Rosemonde, had changed that, leaving a very private and personal part of the Marquise reeling.   
  
Madame de Tourvel, she noticed, was a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve. It was a quality that the Marquise detested in a woman, but she found it rather charming on a man, so she understood how men could see it as appealing. From a purely logical standpoint, she assumed that was why Valmont had chosen Tourvel for his next battle. The Chevalier Belleroche had much the same appeal.   
  
Logic did nothing to explain, however, the sick twist in the Marquise's gut when she watched Valmont exchange longing glances with Tourvel-- looks that she was only too familiar with. Several of those specific expressions, in fact, were ones that had warmed her own heart upon occasion.   
  
The Vicomte is, she has to admit (if only to herself), exceptional at his chosen vocation. The fact that she even wanted to know whether he had meant it when he looked at her or if he meant it now-- well, it was truly impressive what he could achieve, wasn't it? Of course it meant nothing, unless it was _I can see you in my bed already, and I like what I see._  
  
Her own thoughts are repulsive; love is not something the Marquise is a victim of. This kind of confusion was clearly the result of mixing business and pleasure. The purity of her friendship with the Vicomte was tarnished by their earlier relationship: the fact that they both desire a resumption of relations proves that such a friendship was impossible in the first place. A wise woman, the Marquise realizes, would break it off.   
  
A wise woman, the Marquise knows, does not fall in love with the Vicomte de Valmont.


End file.
